


The Adventure Of The Golden Pince-Nez (1894)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [139]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Framing Story, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Paddling, Role-Playing Game, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11328705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: In this case, Sherlock helps out his estimable landlady, Mrs. Ellen Harvelle, by clearing her daughter of a scurrilous and baseless calumny. And John goes for a paddle!





	The Adventure Of The Golden Pince-Nez (1894)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nirelian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirelian/gifts).



This case arose, as the title states, from the theft of a pair of golden pince-nez, worth no more than a few shillings at most. Yet it ended up involving politics, dark dealings and, ultimately, a marriage proposal. As such, it deserves to be placed before my wonderful readers (I still refuse to use my publishers’ ghastly phrase ‘my fandom’). It is a hard life, being an author. 

How Sherlock managed to catch my eye just as I was done writing the word 'hard', I do not know! It is fortunate that I only blush in a manly fashion. And yes, I know that a certain someone is rolling his eyes just now! Well, after last night he knew that I could bowl as well as bat, even if I had had to have a lie-down afterwards!

Appropriately enough, this case started on All Hallows' Eve, which fell on a Wednesday of that year. Sherlock had just finished assisting his brother Bacchus in a rather difficult diplomatic matter and, unusually for him, had requested payment. Not for himself of course, but he told his brother that the government needed to do more for the hundred plus victims of the mining disaster in Glamorganshire, a few months back. When the lounge-lizard muttered about difficulties, Sherlock mentioned that perhaps their mother needed to hear about the matter of the rubber duck and the maid.....

His brother had been out of the door before he had finished!

The first hint of trouble had shown itself when Mrs. Harvelle herself had brought our breakfast up the Wednesday before. This in itself was unusual, as this job was by habit delegated to one of her maids using the new 'dumb-waiter'. It was not the sort of thing that a gentleman could easily comment on, however, especially when he was scared to death by a landlady who kept more than one loaded gun in the house, and knew how to use every single one of them.

I cannot say how much it irked me that Sherlock knew the reason for this change, as was evinced by his first words. Though I was feeling quite kindly disposed towards him at that moment, as the day before he had praised my final draft of “The Empty House” before I had dispatched it to the publishers. His return – obviously, I spared my Victorian readers precise details of certain horizontal events subsequent to it - had been one of the most difficult stories ever to get right, and at one point I had torn up all my notes in frustration and stared again from scratch. Finally, however, it was done. Nor had I forgotten my promise to Miss Ivy Haverstock, and a signed copy had been sent by courier to St. Ætheldreda's.

“I see that there was a suffragist meeting in Bayswater last night”, Sherlock said blithely.

Mrs. Harvelle tensed as she was laying out the breakfast things, but said nothing.

“You are concerned over your daughter”, my friend said calmingly. 

“She persuaded Bobby to take her to that meeting!” Mrs. Harvelle said, sounding almost angry. “Fools, both of them!”

I wondered when Mr. Robert Singer, our recent acquaintance from Manchester, had evolved into ‘Bobby’, but said nothing. I was still thinking of that rifle.

“I saw her going off to work this morning”, Sherlock said. “The white brooch that she was wearing is quite openly political.”

“I know”, Mrs. Harvelle admitted. “I only hope that the fool girl does not get into trouble over it.”

None of us had any idea then just how much 'trouble' Miss Joanna Harvelle was about to get herself into.

+~+~+

On that particular day, Sherlock and I had a dinner appointment with Mrs. Bruce, one of our surgery’s main beneficiaries. It would be truer to say that I had an appointment with the lady, but that I had been asked (begged) to bring my clever friend with me, and Sherlock obligingly agreed to come along. We enjoyed a tolerable evening out, except for Mrs. Bruce’s two daughters both acting far too coquettishly towards my friend (and one of them was engaged, for Heaven's sake!). I could not take the scruffy little urchin anywhere!

As the evening was relatively mild we decided to walk the short distance back home rather than take a cab. We arrived back to 221B safely enough, but on entering the building heard the unmistakable sound of an argument going on between Mrs. Harvelle and her daughter. I knew from experience that the ladies were of similar temperaments, and when they clashed, it was better not to be in the same room. And preferably not in the same town!

Coward that I was, I would have bolted upstairs and waited for them to approach us the next day if they had required any assistance. Instead, Sherlock dragged me bodily forwards – it was totally unfair that he was stronger than me, though I supposed that there were compensations – and we were knocking at Mrs. Harvelle’s door before I could object. It was opened by a worried-looking Mr. Singer, whose faced cleared immediately on seeing us. 

“Thank the Lord that you are back!” he said fervently. “Perhaps you can sort out this unholy mess!”

+~+~+

Between the Harvelle ladies talking over each other and Mr. Singer doing a Greek chorus and wringing his hands in the background, we eventually managed to piece together the day’s events which, it seemed, had culminated in Miss Harvelle being suspended from her employment as a teacher at the Fairleigh Academy for Girls in Marylebone. It had always been a source of astonishment to me that this firecracker of a young lady had ended up as a teacher, yet somehow she fitted into the job perfectly. It was claimed – and I disbelieved it the minute that I heard it – that she had stolen a set of commemorative pure gold pince-nez from the office of the headmistress, Miss Brazen. Not only would Miss Harvelle have no need of such a trinket, she was as honest as the day was long. I would have staked my reputation on that.

“Ladies!” Sherlock said, in a much sharper tone than he normally used. “Now, I am of course at your disposal in this matter, but even the most mundane of consulting detectives needs the facts of the case before they start. Miss Harvelle, you will come upstairs with the doctor and I, whilst you, Mrs. Harvelle, will prepare us each a strong coffee – I know you do not usually partake, Miss Harvelle, but needs must – and you shall then recite what happened, calmly and in the order of events. The doctor will take his notes, and we shall proceed from there.”

When he chose to exert it, Sherlock could have an almost hypnotic effect on those around him, and ten minutes later Miss Harvelle was duly telling us all about her troubles. 

“It all started with the new term”, she said. “The Academy was a three-form school last year, and I taught the smallest children, ages five to seven. But the school was doing so well that Ursula – sorry, Miss Brazen, the headmistress – decided to expand and hire another teacher.”

“And you and this new teacher have not been compatible?” Sherlock asked. She nodded. 

“The other two staff are fine. Miss Rodden teaches the youngest class now, and she is the quietest thing imaginable. Miss Parrot – she is like her name; can talk the hind leg off a donkey - is all right, I suppose. She teaches the eight- and nine-year-olds, whilst I now have mostly seven-year-olds, with a few advanced sixes and slower eights. No, it is the new teacher, Miss Vyne. She insists the top class addresses her as 'Cordelia', which practice is, I hear, in vogue in some schools. I would have deemed it rather risky here, as Miss Brazen only employed her as she did me when I started, on a term’s trial.”

“But if you leave, that places Miss Brazen one teacher short at a time when few are wanting new posts”, Sherlock observed, “and thus in turn puts Miss Vyne in a stronger position. Tell me; when you went in with that brooch this morning, did Miss Brazen object?”

“No”, Miss Harvelle said. “Naturally I went straight to her that day and stated why I was wearing it, and that of course I would take it off if she felt it inadvisable, but she said that whilst she was no campaigner herself, she was strongly in support of freedom of speech, and that provided that I did not wear it when parents were around, she had no issues with it. She has no real politics herself – she distrusts all politicians equally, she says – but she demands that the older girls are taught the basics of the subject.”

“Would that not mean you having to take it off at the start and finish of each day, when the parents come in?” I asked. She looked at me in surprise.

“Doctor”, she said firmly, “Miss Brazen does not allow _parents_ beyond the front desk, except for parents' evenings and scheduled appointments. The last time one of them complained about it, they were cordially invited to take their child and their fees elsewhere!”

I smiled. I was beginning to form a highly favourable mental picture of this Miss Brazen. 

“Did any of the other teaches object to the brooch?” Sherlock asked. “It seems rather coincidental that your troubles occurred on the same day that you wore it.”

“Miss Rodden did not understand it, even when I tried to explain it to her”, Miss Harvelle laughed. “Miss Parrot said that if she ever married, she would expect to ‘love, honour and obey’ her husband. Though at her age, I would deem such an event highly unlikely, for which London’s men – or at least their eardrums - should be grateful! And Miss Vyne looked at me across the staff room, but said nothing.”

“How, in your opinion, would Miss Brazen react to my taking an interest in the case?” Sherlock asked. Miss Harvelle grinned.

“From the fact that she has every issue of the “Strand” magazine on her bookshelf, I would say that she might be amenable.”

+~+~+

About the only good thing about the whole sorry affair was that it broke on the day that it did. Nearly all schools, Fairleigh included, gave their students All Saints’ Day off as a holiday, and as that day fell on a Thursday this year, some schools stayed closed for the Friday as well. The Academy, Miss Harvelle told us, was planning to close to the children on both days but have a parents’ evening on the Friday, as this would enable them to accommodate those who had to work in the evenings by offering slots from lunch-time onwards. With Miss Harvelle's suspension, it was therefore even more urgent that the case be cleared up quickly.

Knowing that Miss Brazen would be in school, Sherlock decided to take a chance and turn up unannounced, on the basis that at least we could seek an appointment. As things turned out however the precaution was unnecessary, for on hearing who had called, the headmistress told her secretary to send us straight in.

Miss Ursula Brazen was possibly in her fifties; like many elderly teachers she had an indefinable quality about her that seemed ageless. She was short and stout whereas Miss Ivy Haverstock had been tall and thin, but both women had the same aura of power about them. She was wearing a dark blue, almost black dress, and everything about her office evinced certainty about her position at the top of things. This was definitely a woman who was used to getting her own way, the unchallenged Queen of her Realm.

I had not even sat down when she then proceeded to undo all the good work of that first impression by simpering at Sherlock. Honestly!

“My sincerest apologies for troubling you at this time, madam”, Sherlock said, bowing deeply before he sat down. “I am a friend of Miss Harvelle, and I must tell you from the start that I am investigating this claim that she stole a pair of golden pince-nez from you. I am of course fully conversant with the fact that if she did not, then another staff member is most likely to be implicated, but I intend to find out the truth in this matter. Are you in a position to help me?”

She sighed.

“Were it down to me alone”, she said ruefully, “I would be inclined to believe Miss Harvelle. But in the circumstances, with the stolen items found in her possession in front of witnesses, I had to act. I trust that you see that?”

“Of course”, Sherlock said. “I wish to establish certain facts about the case, and then to proceed from there. Is the stolen item the one that you are wearing this moment?”

She shook her head.

“This is my regular pair, for my short-sightedness”, she said. “The stolen ones were twenty-four carat gold, but not real spectacles. These have become my trademark, you see, and the governors of the school thought it fitting to present me with a replica of them to mark twenty-five years of service in education, although I have only been headmistress here for the last five of those years.”

“Yet you re-created this place, and have already established its reputation at a time when education is meant to be free for all”, Sherlock said. “That people are willing to pay for quality is, I would presume to judge, a fair indicator of success.”

Miss Brazen blushed. I feared that another simper was coming.

“Now”, Sherlock said, “to the circumstances of the disappearance. When did you become aware that the pince-nez were missing?”

“Yesterday at ten o'clock”, she said. “As a non-functioning item they are kept in the cabinet with the school trophies, which as you can see is over there. It impresses the parents, when they are allowed in. The pince-nez are kept on display towards the centre of the cabinet, but I could not say for definite that they could not have been gone some days without being missed.”

“Who has the keys to the cabinet?” Sherlock asked.

“Myself, Miss Lynch - my secretary - and Mr. Kenwright, the caretaker. As you can see, I keep my keys on me at all times. Miss Lynch, however, had been away until this week, visiting her sister, who is ill. She had no call to check the keys until the day in question, and I believe all the teachers were aware that they would likely be in her office, in an unlocked drawer.”

“Miss Harvelle did not mention a Mr. Kenwright”, Sherlock said. “Does he interact with the teaching staff at all?”

Miss Brazen pursed her lips. 

“It is a difficult situation”, she admitted at last. “Doubtless you noticed the old school next to this one when you arrived. When I looked into acquiring this site, I had to negotiate with the previous owner, who was moving his business to Yorkshire. Mr. Kenwright was his night-watchman, and Mr. Bradley asked me to take him on as a favour, in return for selling me the property. Technically I do not _have_ to keep him on, but I feel morally obliged so to do. I very much doubt that he would easily find employment elsewhere, especially as he is quite close to retirement.”

“You are not happy with his work?” Sherlock asked.

“He does the bare minimum”, Miss Brazen said, “which in the world of education is galling. Also, he has of late clashed with Miss Vyne, my new teacher. My other staff always make the children tidy their classrooms before they go home, which is quite right and proper, but she tells me that she firmly believes in 'free expression'. Very.... modern.”

I hid a smile at the damning adjective.

“Who spotted the theft?” Sherlock asked.

“A girl called Arabella Buckley, one of our eldest”, Miss Brazen said. “She was in here for a bullying incident that I was investigating, and that I thought – correctly – she was behind. She said nothing to me, but went and reported it to her teacher, Miss Vyne, which I suppose is understandable. She paused before adding, “you do not think that the girl may be involved at all?”

“I am rather afraid that she may have been”, Sherlock said gravely. “Would I be allowed to approach Miss Lynch for her address?”

“If you do, I can guarantee that everyone in the school will know of it by end of day”, she said with a knowing smile. “If not sooner.”

Sherlock leant forward.

“I do hope so!” he said.

And there was another bloody simper! Damnation!

+~+~+

Sherlock briefly examined the returned pince-nez, and we visited Miss Harvelle's classroom before leaving, but there seemed to be nothing of any import in either instance. Miss Lynch provided us with Miss Arabella Buckley's address before we left, and one look at the secretary (yes, she simpered at Sherlock too, damn her!) told me that the headmistress had been right.

The Buckleys lived in Mayfair, in an elegant town house. Once we were admitted however, it quickly became clear that both Mr. and Mrs. Buckley were not going to be co-operative.

“I do not care what reputation you have, Mr. Holmes”, Mrs. Buckley sniffed. “You are most definitely _not_ going to speak to dear, sweet, innocent Arabella.”

Sherlock stood up.

“I see that this is pointless”, he said gravely, "and in a way I quite understand your viewpoint as parents. Indeed, I admire you for the _brave_ stand that you are taking over this matter.”

Both the Buckleys flinched at that word.

“What do you mean, brave?” Mr. Buckley demanded. Sherlock sighed heavily.

“Well, I merely wanted confirmation of a regrettably inadvisable deed done by your daughter, which I know her to have committed”, he said with a shrug. “And as a private detective, that would have been that. But once the Metropolitan Police are called in....”

“The police!” Mrs. Buckley shrieked.

“I am afraid it is quite unavoidable”, Sherlock said gently. “The publicity over such a renowned school will, of course, be absolutely _horrendous_. It may even reach the national newspapers, based as they are so close at hand. Although possibly the local station might be prevailed upon to post a policeman outside your door, to deter the vultures of the press.”

“Ye Gods, Mr. Holmes, what has my daughter gone and done?” Mr. Buckley almost yelled.

“She has been a willing accomplice in a crime that has impacted on a daughter of a friend of mine”, Sherlock said. “As such, of course, I myself would normally be pushing the police to prosecute to the full extent of the law, though mercifully your daughter is too young for jail....”

Mr. Buckley shot to his feet and bolted across to the door, which he pulled open.

“Bella!” he roared. 

There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, and moments later a sulky-looking young girl of about eleven years of age entered the room. She had an air of her own consequence which marked her out all too well as her parents' child, but she was also clearly anxious. Sherlock walked over to her, then took out his notebook and wrote something on it. 

“Miss Buckley”, he said gravely, “if you are honest with me, we can limit ourselves to one question. Answer it truthfully, and I will endeavour to persuade Miss Brazen to be merciful, little though your actions merit such clemency. Lie to me, and I will equally endeavour to make sure that your next few years are decidedly interesting. My question is this. Yesterday, a certain person told you to say that you had seen Miss Brazen's golden pince-nez in Miss Harvelle's bag. Is this the name of that person?”

He showed the notebook to the trembling girl, who nodded but said nothing. Sherlock turned to her parents.

“Although her recent actions do not deserve my consideration, I shall leave it to your daughter's conscience – assuming that she has one - to inform you as to what heinous act she was involved in”, he said grimly. “If I am successful in bringing her co-conspirator to book, I will keep my word and represent to Miss Brazen that Arabella played only a minor part in this shameful deed. Good day, sir, madam. Miss Buckley.”

He swept from the room and I hurried after him, though not before I heard the three Buckleys fall to arguing. Frankly they deserved each other.

+~+~+

I should comment at this point that, whilst Sherlock always defended me against accusations that I was nothing more than a glorified biographer, I rarely felt that I ever really contributed to his solving of any of our cases together. This, however, was a rare exception, as it was our conversation on our way back from Mayfair which (inadvertently, of course) showed Sherlock how his criminal might be exposed. As he always said, there was often a gulf between his knowing the guilty party, and his having standards of proof that twelve good men and true would accept.

We had discussed various aspects of the case, my friend annoyingly refusing to enlighten me as to the name that he had shown young Miss Buckley, when he turned and asked me about whether I would publish this case (leaving the schoolgirl's part out, of course). After having a run of cases where I could not share the details with the public for one reason or another, and with the last case (Sherlock's return) close to publication, I said that I most probably would.

“Though I shall probably call it something idiotic like 'The Case Of The Case'”, I said with a smile. 

He looked at me in confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“The case that the pince-nez were in”, I explained. “Below it, on the display plinth.”

He stared at me for a moment, then shot to his feet – a dangerous exercise in a moving London cab – and rapped on the roof for the driver's attention.

“Driver, Fairleigh Academy!” he yelled. “As fast as you can!”

I stared at him in confusion. What on earth was going on?

+~+~+

Miss Brazen was surprised to see us back in her offices, and so out of breath. Sherlock had raced in from the cab (leaving me to pay!), and I had had to run to catch him up.

“Miss Brazen”, Sherlock said, recovering his breath, “earlier today I most foolishly forgot to ask you a key question in my investigation. Thanks to the good doctor here whose wits, unlike mine, were not away somewhere wool-gathering, I was reminded on the way back from Miss Buckley's house. The pince-nez – is the case that we saw with them the same one that they came with?”

She looked as confused as I felt at his question. 

“Yes”, she said. “Finest tortoise-shell. Now that you come to mention it, I did think it odd that the pince-nez were taken but the case was left behind; the latter is probably worth more in monetary terms.”

Sherlock heaved a sight of relief.

“Excellent!” he said. “I know the identity of the guilty party, and proving it may have been problematical but for that news. We have a chance to catch them tomorrow morning, well before any parents start arriving at your school. Now here is what we have to do....”

+~+~+

Half-past nine the following morning found Sherlock, myself, Mr. Kenwright, Miss Lynch and the four teachers all sat in Miss Harvelle's classroom. There was a feeling of expectancy in the air, and I noted that Miss Harvelle sat nearer to Sherlock rather than her fellow teachers. Fortunately Miss Brazen sailed into the room at that moment, and took Miss Harvelle's teacher's chair. She nodded to Sherlock, who stood up.

“Ladies and gentlemen”, he began, “we are here today to find the person responsible for the theft of Miss Brazen's commemorative golden pince-nez. Certain indications in my early inquiries pointed me to one person in particular, and by late yesterday I was certain that I was right. Regrettably however, the Metropolitan Police, quite unreasonably in my opinion, tend to demand rather more in the way of proof than 'Mr. Sherlock Holmes thinks'. So, I laid a trap.”

“Acting on my advice, Miss Brazen told her secretary this morning that she was certain the identity of the thief could be easily proved by the use of finger-prints.”

“Stuff and nonsense”, Miss Vyne said, sounding almost angry. “Anyone with any sense would have wiped the prints off the things.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Indeed”, he said. “My own examination of the pince-nez showed no prints on them, and I thought no more of it – until my good friend Doctor Watson made a remark which showed me the error of my ways! The pince-nez themselves might be cleaned – _but the expensive presentation case that was just beneath them was made of soft tortoise-shell, which records finger prints to a remarkable extent!_ ”

Someone drew a sharp breath, though I did not see who it was. 

“Miss Brazen told her secretary that a friend of mine would be coming to the school before lunch-time with some equipment which would be able to lift such a print”, Sherlock said. “I think I can safely boast that I am possibly the only man in London Town who has ever caused the great Miss Brazen to tell a lie. In informing her secretary, of course, she could be sure that the whole school would know sooner rather than later.”

Miss Lynch blushed. Sherlock turned to her.

“I almost wish that I had been wrong”, he said. “Miss Brazen?”

The headmistress opened her reticule and withdrew a small handkerchief, which she passed to Sherlock. He placed it on the table in front of Miss Lynch, and opened it out. There were some ugly brown marks in the corner.

“I am afraid that I also instructed Miss Brazen to send you here with the others, and then to search your desk for this”, he said coldly. “I felt it likely that you would not come to a meeting such as this with an incriminating object on your person. Rubbing hard at tortoise-shell leaves an unmistakable brown stain on a material as delicate as a lady's handkerchief.”

Miss Lynch stared at him in stony silence.

“Knowing what you do about the various girls' disciplinary records”, Sherlock said, “it was easy for you to single out Arabella Buckley as the one most likely to help you, and to incriminate a teacher to cover your own tracks. You disliked Miss Harvelle because she openly supported votes for women, and your dislike only intensified when Miss Brazen chose to give her at least tacit support by allowing her to continue wearing her brooch. It was a shameful thing that you did, madam.”

There was a knock at the door and Mr. Kenwright, who was standing nearest, opened it, Two policemen entered. Miss Lynch stood up.

“And I am not the least bit sorry!” she said stiffly. “A woman's place is in the home, and that is the way that it shall always be!”

She stormed out, the policemen following in her wake. Miss Brazen rapped the table, drawing everyone's attention back to herself.

“Ladies”, she said firmly, “we have parental visits to prepare for. And we owe Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson a vote of thanks for clearing all our names.”

“Actually, the doctor and I are staying on for a few hours”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Miss Harvelle wants her classroom just right for the visits which start in” - he looked at his watch - “two and a quarter hours. Since she has missed a day, we shall help her catch up.”

+~+~+

Four hours later, we made it back to Baker Street. It had taken much effort to get Miss Harvelle's room to the standard she desired, and matters had not been helped when a small tube of gold glitter had erupted over me whilst I was trying to improve a display. My co-workers' sniggering had not improved my mood, either.

I noticed that Sherlock had brought something back from the school in a bag but thought little of it at the time, and we ate our dinner in a comfortable silence until I mused that this was the second case since Sherlock's return with a scholastic flavour. He gave me an odd look, then got up and told me to come to his room in five minutes' time. Naked. I gulped.

Five minutes later, I knocked at the door wearing nothing but a grin that was somewhere between hopeful and fearful. On hearing Sherlock's voice bidding me enter, I pushed the door open – and my heart skipped a beat. Sherlock had pulled the large wooden chair out into the middle of the room and was sat on it, wearing a teacher's black gown and cap, and wielding a paddle. He gazed pointedly at me, and I shuddered, but walked over and positioned myself across his lap.

“Hands on the floor!” he commanded. I did so, feeling his hard cock pushing into my side. Then the paddle struck my buttocks, and I yelped. 

“Remember!” he hissed. “One word from you, and I will stop. This is your choice, John!”

I nodded, only dimly aware that he might not notice, and bit back a second cry as he struck again. He gave me six of the best, and followed them up with six more, but I refrained from crying out, even though my backside hurt like never before. Then he gently raised me and led me over to the bed where he laid me out. I wondered if he was going to take me whilst my buttocks were still red and raw, but of course he surprised me. I felt the cold drip of some sort of unguent onto my open wounds, and then he was gently rubbing it in, whispering words of love as he worked. Finally he finished, and managed to slide himself underneath me so I was totally on top of him. How he bore my greater weight on his small frame always made me wonder, but I knew sleeping on my back – or even my side – was not an option, and I just snuggled into him.

God, I so loved this man!

+~+~+

Postscriptum: I can now reveal the reason why this case was published some ten years after the events described herein, well 'out of sequence' in my list of published works. Whilst I usually respect the rights of minors to privacy, Miss Arabella Buckley's subsequent 'career', which resulted in her execution for the double murder (of the parents in this story!) when she was but twenty-one years of age, means that I have no such scruples in this case. I only hope that the wretched girl is in the Hell that she truly deserves.

+~+~+

Our next case would involve Merridew of abominable memory – and I would lose my temper with Sherlock.

**Author's Note:**

> Historical note: White or clear jewellery was used by the suffragist movement for years before green, white and violet became the colours associated with it, allegedly because the colours symbolized the letters G, W and V – Give Women the Vote.


End file.
